


Petals and Ink

by VeloxVoid



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Attraction, Crush at First Sight, Felix Hugo Fraldarius Being an Asshole, First Dates, First Meetings, Flirting, Lust at First Sight, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Romance, Sylvain Jose Gautier Being An Idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29472705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeloxVoid/pseuds/VeloxVoid
Summary: Just when Sylvain begins to believe his new flower shop may have been a mistake, a visit from the local tattoo artist makes him rethink. Felix is the most gorgeous man he has ever seen, yet Sylvain realises Felix is hard to get.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 14
Kudos: 51





	Petals and Ink

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [VeloxVoid](https://twitter.com/VeloxVoid) on Twitter if you'd like to follow me for more. I'm currently taking a break for my mental health but I should be back fairly soon :)

“... A flower shop, Sylvain? Really?” Ingrid raised an eyebrow at him, her hands slowly drifting to her hips.

“It’s called the  _ ‘Bergamot Bouquet’, _ thank you very much. And, hey, it was a  _ good _ idea!” Sylvain defended.

The woman looked incredulous. “When have you  _ ever _ been interested in flowers? When have you ever given two shits whether a flower lived or died?”

“I’ve been interested in flowers for a while! I used to buy them almost every day back when I was looking for love—”

“Ugh!” Ingrid turned, pacing the shop back and forth. She glanced at the shelves, loaded with bunches and bouquets of all sorts of flowers. Sylvain had arranged them according to their colour, creating a rainbow across one wall from red to purple. The rest of the shop stood empty, shelves awaiting pots, pots awaiting plants.

_ Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. _

Sylvain shook his head quickly to rid himself of the thought. “Look, it’s _fine,”_ he told Ingrid. “Dedue used to help me with flowers all the time back when I was dating.”

That made Ingrid stop in her tracks. “That’s all this is, isn’t it?” she asked, rounding on him with narrowed eyes. “Is this your attempt to get more dates? Lure people in here with a pretty little flower shop just to flirt with them?”

Sylvain felt embarrassment swell in his chest, a sweat beginning to prickle his skin. Ingrid thought he was  _ that _ desperate? And, hell, that much of a  _ jerk? _ He was actually somewhat offended.

It must have shown on his face. “Hey, I’m sorry,” Ingrid said, softening slightly. She crossed to the counter and reached across, rubbing Sylvain’s upper arm soothingly. “It’s great you’ve finally got yourself a job, especially away from your father. Honestly, it is. But is investing so much money into a  _ flower shop _ really the best idea? I mean, you hardly know a rose from a tulip.”

Sylvain thought for a moment as that darkness began to swirl inside him again. That sadness he’d been unable to shake for years now — the dark ache that shrouded his heart. The reality of his situation hit him hard. He sighed — a heavy, dejected thing. “Well, it was the only shop on the market, so…”

Ingrid pitied him visibly before giving a strained smile. “Well, I gotta go to work. Sorry, Sylvain. Best of luck, honestly."

And Sylvain was left alone. Of course. As usual. After the shop door’s bell signified Ingrid’s absence with its mocking little tinkle, he sat down on the counter’s stool and buried his head in his hands, his fingers gripping the soft curls of his hair and pulling. 

What had he  _ done? _ Was buying this shop truly a mistake? He’d done it on a total whim — a surge of anger and a sugar-rush of rebellion. He’d taken a chunk of his father’s inheritance and bought the first shop-front that had opened up to him.

Yet he had no idea what he was doing. He didn’t know how to run a business, nor a shop, and knew  _ nothing _ about flowers.

_ You idiot, Sylvain. _ Words mocked him inside his head, though whether they were from his own voice, Ingrid’s, or even his father’s, he couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was all three.  _ You immature, insolent child. _

He scarcely heard the bell over the door jingling again until a voice spoke up over it. “Hey, you’re open, right?”

_ No. Not really.  _ Sylvain still had so much to set up — so many more flowers left to order, decorating to do.

Yet as he pulled his head out of his hands, an apologetic and defeated smile already fixed to his lips, he stopped. Coils began to wrap around his chest, tightening until his heart was squeezed, his lungs beginning to ache. Only one word crossed his mind as he stared into the eyes of his first customer.

_ Fuck. _

Before him stood the foreboding form of a man, posture cool and powerful. Hands tucked into the pockets of his black leather biker jacket, shredded black skinny jeans tucked into leather platform boots. This man knew who he was.

Cobalt-coloured hair was slicked back from his face and tied into a messy bun at the back of his head, accentuating sharp, deadly features in a face so hollow — so still, so perfectly symmetrical — he could have been carved from marble. The only tell-tale sign he wasn’t made from precious stone was his eyes, two pools of molten amber staring out through the purple hollows of his eye sockets. He stood in the centre of the flower shop, staring Sylvain down.

Sylvain could only stare back, slack-jawed. Never before had he laid eyes on anybody half so beautiful; his chest burned and his gut fluttered, swarming with butterflies. Increasingly, he became aware that he was experiencing what must have been the most intense, primal attraction in his life.

“Are you open or not?” the man asked impatiently, raising one sharp eyebrow.

A tiny chuckle left Sylvain’s throat, though whether it was from relief, fear, or from the butterflies erupting inside his stomach, he couldn't say. “Yes! Yes, we’re open!” he lied, smiling wide. “Please, look around all you like!”

_ Goddess damn. _

“Thanks,” was his response. He turned to the opposite wall, and began to peruse the flowers.

Sylvain couldn’t take his eyes away. Creeping across the soft, pale skin of the man’s neck were tattoos. Beautiful tattoos, all shades of black and grey, depicting images of a like Sylvain could never hope to understand. Patterns, symbols, and words in languages unintelligible snaked up his neck, coiling around his collarbones visible beneath his shirt, even wrapping around the backs of his ears.

If he had so much ink on merely his neck alone, Sylvain felt his blood rush downwards at the thought of what the rest of his body looked like.

“So, uh, what brings someone like you to a shop like this?” he asked to distract himself, his voice coming out croaky. He cleared his throat.  _ Damn, you’re rusty. _ He hadn’t flirted with anybody for months.

“Someone  _ like me? _ ” the man asked back, whirling around to fix Sylvain with a scowl.

“Oh, shit, sorry—” he stuttered, laughing anxiously. “No offence or anything, you just don’t look like the...  _ flower _ type.”

“Hm.” The man turned back around, inspecting a bunch of deep crimson roses. After remaining silent for a moment, he turned his focus to some orange flowers, ones with a name that escaped Sylvain’s memory. “Do you stock chrysanthemums?” he asked suddenly, voice sharp.

Sylvain blinked at him. “Do I stock what-now?”

“Chrysanthemums,” he said back, painfully slowly, turning to Sylvain. “It’s a type of flower?”

“Oh, of course!”  _ Whoops. _ “Uh, I’m afraid I don’t think we do at the moment…”

After a pause, the man spat back, “What kind of florist are you?”

Sylvain felt that in his chest — a pang of shame. “You wound me, Sir,” he said, offering a side-smirk which was returned with a rolling of amber-hued eyes. “We’re expecting a delivery later if you’d like to come back then?”

“Whatever.” And he turned, heading towards the door.

“Oh, wait!” Sylvain said suddenly, almost falling off the stool in his attempt to stand. He didn’t want the man to leave — he wanted to get to know him! “Mind if I ask what you wanted the cryst— chris— um, the flowers for?”

The man’s shoulders tightened as Sylvain approached, walking across the shop to stand at his side. A deep scent permeated the air around him; faint, day-old deodorant masked by leather and a tang of steel. An alluring aroma, one that flooded Sylvain’s nostrils like smelling salts to snap him into a frenzy. A  _ tempting _ scent.

“I work at  _ Aegis Studios _ across the street.” He scratched the back of his head with one hand, his expression softening to look almost bashful. “Somebody wants a chrysanthemum tattoo, so I need some of the flowers as a reference for the art.”

A tattoo artist.  _ Dear Goddess. _ This man kept getting better and better. Sylvain kept his cool. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, neighbour. I’m Sylvain.” He held out his hand, watching the other man glare at it.

A second too long passed, leaving the moment to curdle and turn sour. Just as Sylvain began to withdraw, the binds of anxiety tightening around his chest once more, the man grabbed hold of his hand in cold, hard fingers.

“Felix,” he muttered. He let go, switched his grip to the door handle, and pulled it open, conjuring the bittersweet song of the bell. “I’ll come back at some point, see if you got ‘em. Thanks.”

And without another word, he left. A brisk chill washed over Sylvain in his wake, leaving him to shudder.

Even as Sylvain continued with his day, receiving a delivery of decorative plant pots and arranging them as neatly as possible, he could not get the tattoo artist out of his mind.

_ Felix. _ A handsome name — a sharp, quick name that tasted delicious on the tongue. Sylvain couldn’t get enough of it. The man with the tattoos swirling about his neck, with those dangerous eyes and sleek, stylish hair; a voice that drawled, smooth like melted butter… An artist. Perhaps a little punky given his dress-sense.

Sylvain found himself sighing heavy exhales of longing every five minutes, his eyes drifting to the window to stare across the road to the shopfront of  _ Aegis Studios, _ its signage in fancy black letters upon a background of inky patterns. Even the freaking  _ shopfront _ looked attractive.

Hours passed with no more customers, no more deliveries, and no more Felix. Soon, the day turned to early evening, with the azure sky adopting a hue of muted indigo. And still, no Felix.

_ Screw it,  _ Sylvain thought. He grabbed his jacket from behind the counter and marched over to the flowers, picking out a bouquet of dark, navy-blue waxflowers. He didn’t think they were this colour naturally — he remembered Dedue mentioning something about dye — but they suited Felix’s hair perfectly.

Without a further thought — no further worry about whether he was making a good decision — Sylvain pulled open the door and leapt out into the street beyond. He had only one destination in mind.

Bursting through the entrance of  _ Aegis Studios, _ he was met immediately by the sight of Felix. The man wiped down a tattoo bed with some sort of cloth in an otherwise empty parlour, looking up to the door at once.

“Hey, we’re closed—” he began, but his eyes widened as they realised who stood before them. Felix had doffed his jacket to show not only the charcoal-coloured shirt he wore beneath, but also two full sleeves of greyscale tattoos coating the skin of his arms.

“It’s you,” Felix said, an expression of either irritation or confoundment crossing his face.

“It is,” Sylvain replied, forgetting why he was there. All that mattered in that moment was Felix; his astounding beauty — his lean, slim physique, with an almost hourglass curve to his waist and broad, toned shoulders.  _ Perfection. _

“Say,” Sylvain started, smiling as he spoke, “can I maybe… get your number?”

Eyes of molten gold narrowed at him, slim lips curling into a snarl. “If you want an appointment, book with our receptionis—”

_ “No,”  _ Sylvain breathed through a laugh. “No,  _ your number. _ I’m asking if you’d like to go out some time. Grab a drink, some snacks perhaps?”

Felix’s gaze raked him up and down, taking in the tracksuit pants Sylvain had donned this morning, the emerald green sports jacket slung lazily across his shoulders. Again, he raised one sharp eyebrow, judging Sylvain from his lazy auburn curls all the way down to his battered old trainers. Sylvain, had he any ounce of shame left in him, would have felt embarrassed beneath such a gaze. But he didn’t. He was far,  _ far _ past caring.

“Maybe you could just tattoo my butt, get it over with,” he shrugged, giving Felix a wide, dopey smile.

After a moment more of glaring, Felix spoke in his drawling voice. “You’re a florist.”

“Only just,” shrugged Sylvain. He remembered the flowers he held, the bouquet he crushed in his sweaty-palmed grip. He extended them to Felix. “And using my extensive knowledge, I got you these.”

Felix scowled at the flowers, then up at him. “You wanna take me on a date?”

“Date’s a loose word for it, really,” Sylvain replied, feeling himself slipping back into the easy, natural groove of flirting. With somebody like Felix — somebody he was so ridiculously,  _ incredibly _ into — it felt a breeze. “We could call it a meet-cute, see how that goes for us?”

“Me visiting your lousy flower shop this morning was the meet-cute, dumbass.”

“Oh, so you agree it was a meet-cute?” And Sylvain cocked his head, smiling innocently at Felix.

He rolled his eyes once more, shaking his head in a motion that loosened a few dark hairs from his bun.

“Great, because I couldn’t agree more.” And Sylvain held the waxflowers out to Felix, watching the man step up and snatch them.

“I’d be out of my mind to accept this proposal of yours, you know,” he said, but something smiled behind those fascinating eyes as he prodded at the flowers.

“Believe me, I’ve already lost it all just by proposing it,” Sylvain shot back. Yes, this tattoo artist was out of his league. Yes, he probably hated his guts, and would most likely ban him from the studio never to allow him entry again. But at least Sylvain could say he tried; he fell into the deep, dark pit of attraction, and the only way out was through either acceptance or rejection. Shooting his shot was a sensation he’d grown used to.

“Whatever, Florist,” Felix said finally, slamming the flowers down on the nearest tattoo bed and crossing his tattooed arms. “What’s your usual spot for drinks?”

Sylvain’s chest swelled, butterflies bursting in the pit of his stomach to swarm throughout him.  _ Seriously!? _ he wanted to ask, overcome by childish glee. Instead, however, he kept his cool. Smirked, gestured with his head for Felix to follow him out of the shop. “I know a certain somewhere. It’s called  _ My Place.” _

“I will stab you with this tattoo gun, right here and now.” Felix’s threat was so serious, so grave, that Sylvain had to burst out laughing.

“Kidding, kidding! How’s about  _ Garland Moon _ for you?”

And with a look of irritation, Felix shoved Sylvain out of the tattoo shop’s door, hopping into the street after him. “Sure, whatever. Lead the way.”

Perhaps Sylvain  _ had _ been right to buy that tacky little flower shop after all. He hadn’t done so with the intent of picking up potential suitors as Ingrid had suspected, but with Faerghus’s most gorgeous tattoo artist now by his side, scowling though he may have been, Sylvain found he really couldn’t complain.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot for now, but if anyone is interested in more, I may write more chapters...?


End file.
